The Devils I Carry
by sulliedsoles
Summary: A sad boy, a psychotic girl, an opportunity, and an irresistible urge. This isn't the first time, and it won't be the last.


**Disclaimer: Twilight and all our favorite characters belong to Stephenie Meyer. Psychotic Girl and my ear drums belong to the Black Keys.**

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I pull my motorcycle off to the side of the curvy dirt road and behind a collection of ancient oaks. When I kill the engine and the headlight with it, I'm surprised by the darkness that covers me. There is no unnatural light here, and with only half a moon, it takes my eyes a few seconds to adjust.

But soon enough I can make out the pale ribbon of the trail, the peek of the stars through the treetops, and the purple-black of the night sky.

I take off my helmet and pocket my key, leaving my only means of transportation behind with a pat to the still-warm seat. As impractical as the thing is in the wet weather of the Pacific Northwest, at least it's easy to hide. At least it's fast.

And once you get used to the damp chill, the kind of cold and wet that soaks in and goes marrow deep, once you just accept it and make it a part of you, it's not half bad. It's a twisted sort of home.

When I'm satisfied that the bike is out of sight, I light a cigarette and start walking. I am not rushed. My pace is unhurried and patient, and I am echoing every urgent heartbeat with an inhale, an exhale, and a step. My destination isn't in sight yet, but it's there.

Just a bar, a place I passed about two miles back that looked exactly like what I'm looking for: small, windowless, neon-lit, and smoke-filled. That old feeling, the knowing, the magnet-tug was there, and as always, I gave in. I knew it was where I was supposed to go. I don't know why, or how.

My boots crunch on gravel, and I exhale loudly, just so there's another noise in the quiet of the night. I don't know what town this is or how far I've gone from Seattle. I've been on the road for a few hours and would've liked to go farther, but the itch, the twinge, the need in me got too loud. Louder than the road, the logging trucks, the roaring Harley, making my hands shake and my eyes blur. Unignorable.

When I make it back out to dark asphalt and painted lines, I'm done with my cigarette, and I toss it into the wet grass. I walk toward the bar, my feet following the solid white line on the right side of the road. The air is damp, coating my skin and my clothes and the inside of my lungs. It's so dark out here, so different from the city. There's a grey-green fog hanging everywhere but right on top of the street, and I'm glad at least for that.

When I get close to the bar, I slow my steps. I try to talk myself out of going in. I run my hands through my hair a time or two, pushing it out of my eyes. I tell myself I don't have to do this. Then I tell myself I do. With two deep breaths, I walk up to the entrance.

The place is a fucking dump. Most of the places I go are, though. I've gotten better at ignoring the grime, the way the bar is greasy and fingerprinted, the sticky-stink of alcohol and cigarettes, the littered floor, the unwashed patrons. These aren't my places; they aren't my people. But I've adopted them.

I walk from the unmanned door straight to the bar, not getting a second glance from anyone in this place, even though from a distance, I look more like a sixteen-year-old than my full 22. It helps that I'm tiny-petite and that I keep my hair too long and wear too much eye make-up.

The soles of my heavy black boots stick to dark-stained hardwood floors, and I make sure not to touch the shiny surface of the bar when I lift myself up onto an empty stool. There's no one at all to my left and one lonely barfly to my right with a ball cap pulled down low, nearly covering his face. He's nursing a beer and ignoring me.

I examine him, and he doesn't seem to notice. He's young, probably my age, with a rock-solid jaw and tension around his eyes. He's sad; I can feel it from here. I wonder if I can help him.

If he can help me.

I wonder if he can feel my sadness, the way I can feel his. I wonder if his is as dark and relentless as mine—as evil, as cruel, as vicious. I wonder if his is a blackness that creeps out in vengeful and destructive ways, if it's malicious-mean and spiteful. I think about the devils I carry, the hateful obscenities of my mind. I wonder if his sadness is foundation-crumbling, life-destroying. If it fucking kills.

His startlingly green eyes meet mine for half a second when I have the thought, then flit back to staring into his glass.

It takes a few minutes for the bartender to come round to take my order, but she finally does. She's probably only a little older than me, but her eyes and her over-dyed blond hair make her look fifty. She is worn down, wasted and tired, and it shows. I almost pity her.

"What can I get you?"

"Bourbon, neat." I won't drink it.

My right knee is bouncing up and down. I light a cigarette to give myself something to do. I always know when it's coming—the mania, the hysteria. I can see it. I feel the anxiety creeping up my throat, the unstoppable frenzy that will set in soon always announces itself in the same small ways—twitches, ticks, restlessness.

And just like that, right on time, here comes my first opportunity of the night. He's shaky and bumbling up to me, in his early fifties, and about forty-five pounds overweight, all in his gut. He has a mustache and halitosis and slick-sweaty palms.

"Hi." He half-sits on the stool next to me, one foot propped on the base of my seat, the other stretched behind me. He leans forward and traps me with his limbs and his eyes. I look over him to the younger guy, Mr. Ballcap, down the bar. He's unaffected and cold and still nursing that beer.

"Hi," I say curtly, turning away. Just him being in my proximity makes the adrenaline flow, makes my heart pump faster. I'm rude because he expects it. I know how men see me and what they want. A kitten who thinks she's a tiger.

"Can I buy your drink?" he asks, just as the bartender sets it down. She sends him this withering look, and I sit up a little straighter and shake my head no at her. She shrugs and goes back to the nothing she occupies herself with at the other end of the bar.

I fake-sip at the warm liquid, ignore and deny. He doesn't take the hint, just like I thought.

"Come on, baby. Don't be that way. At least tell me your name. You're so pretty." He's getting closer, breathing in my ear now, and the madness roots in my gut, takes hold in my brain. But it starts moving from my heart. With every beat, it's creeping out through veins and capillaries like a poison, a fog, an inky-thick haze.

I flip my worn-out switch, and just like that, I've decided. It'll be this one, the run-down horny late-lifer, since the loner up the way isn't interested.

I cut my eyes at him, my choice based on lack of choices, and he startles at the blackness of my irises. I blink once, twice, then fake-sip again.

"I'm Alice," I say, leaning back a little and turning toward him. "And your name?"

"I'm Charlie." And if the black contacts bother him, like so many others, he pretends not to notice or care. I trail a black painted nail up his bicep and smile, just a little.

"Charlie," I purr. "Charlie Charlie Charlie."

"Uh huh," he says dumbly.

"What do you want with me, Charlie?"

He seems a little taken aback by my directness, or maybe he's just drunk. He stares at my chest until I clear my throat.

"Oh, well, just some conversation, you know. I'm a lonely guy."

"Is that all?" I ask, disbelief and faux-flirtation coating my words.

"Well, sure, I mean," he mumbles and sips at his cheap beer. "Whatever you want, baby."

I take the tiniest taste of warm bourbon into my mouth and lick my lips. His eyes are roaming until they're attracted to the movement, and I know I've got him. It takes so little effort.

"Are you going to stand there all night, or are you going to take me somewhere so we can be alone?"

He gets flustered. I can see it on his face. He can't believe it's going to be that easy. My heartbeat kicks up again, and I breathe harder and clench over-eager muscles. I feel heat pooling, building, collecting between my thighs. Tonight is going to be better than I planned. Maybe, maybe I'll feel better in the morning.

Charlie leaves a crumpled five on the bar and grabs my wrist. I flinch instinctively, but I fight against what I want to do. I fight against my nature. I try to be patient. His clammy hand on me takes me to a new level of excitement, anticipation. My skin heats up, and my fingers twitch and clutch at air. They itch for contact.

"Yeah, let's go, baby."

I follow him silently, scanning the room as we go, and the best thing about dives like this is no one pays attention to anything you do.

I check over my shoulder once just before we head out the door, and the desperate drinker, the tragic boy up the way, the terrible and troubled and tormented - just my type - is looking at me. I give him a sad smile. Such a waste. He would have liked me. He would have been fun.

I turn, and I leave, sad green eyes forgotten.

When we get outside, I say, "Where's your car?" He's still holding my wrist like he's afraid I'll disappear. For a moment I think he can't find it.

Then he says, "We'll have to take yours."

I sigh. This is a problem. I should have made sure he had a car first.

"Baby," I say, and I lean in to whisper in his ear, my free hand resting on his chest, "I came here in a cab, and I'm counting on fucking you silly in the backseat of any vehicle you can get me in."

"Oh, shit," he breathes, his eyes darting all over the half-empty parking lot. "Okay, okay, come on."

He drags me a little way to a beater of a truck, rusted or red, I can't be sure which, and opens the driver's side door, half-lifting, half-pushing me into the cab. I climb in and slide to the passenger side, watching him hoist himself up and wishing he were healthier, younger. It'd make this last longer.

He pulls down the visor, and a set of keys falls into his open palm. I realize we're borrowing or stealing this truck and hope it doesn't complicate things. My biceps twitch under the thin leather of my jacket, and my right leg is jumping again. I clench my hands into fists.

He cranks the truck, and it's so fucking loud I jump, looking left and right to see if we're being watched. I don't see anyone outside of the barely-lit bar. I take a deep breath to calm myself and close my eyes, picturing how good I'm going to feel tomorrow. Please let me feel better tomorrow, I beg silently.

A slow smile spreads over my face, and I run a hand through my dyed-too-dark hair. I open my eyes and realize I'm rocking forward and back, forward and back, every muscle clenched down tight, nails tapping on the door handle and smile still in place. Charlie is concentrating on the road, and I wonder how long we've been driving. When I turn around, the bar isn't even in sight.

He pulls off into a field, an abandoned place full of dried corn stalks and dust. Just before he shuts off the engine and headlights, I see a sneering scarecrow.

"Ah, a witness," I breathe, so quiet.

"What'd you say, baby?" Charlie asks, but I don't waste any time; I'm much too eager.

"Oh, god," he grunts when I palm his dick through his jeans. He's not hard, not yet, but he's getting there. I want to help him along, so I slide closer and nip at his neck. I feel his hand go straight for my tit, and I'm glad he's not dawdling either.

"Oh, yeah, baby, just like that," I say, all earnest lust and desire. I unbuckle his brown leather belt and pull it hard, whipping it through belt loops and wrapping it around my left hand. Then I undo the button on his pants and pull down his zipper. I'm so fucking wet. I can't wait to get my legs around him.

He's panting and cupping my tits, moaning while I play with his dick, his eyes closed and his head tilted back.

He looks like all the rest, like every man I've ever fucked.

Stupid.

I stop touching him long enough to undo my pants and tug them down to my ankles. I don't take off my boots, just leave dark denim pooled and constricting. He's staring at my pussy now, bare and drenched, and he licks his lips.

He grunts when I wrap my little hand around him again, pumping him a few times, hoping it will keep his eyes off me. I pull a condom from my back pocket and put it on for him, rolling it down with my mouth. I pull away when I think he might come. The noises he's making, it's like he hasn't had any pussy in years. Maybe he hasn't.

"All right, Charlie. Are you ready for me, baby?" I ask as I lift myself over him, spreading myself wide, one knee on either side of his hips, ankles tucked under the steering wheel.

"Yes, yes, god, yes," he says.

"Are you sure?"

He nods, fast, sweat already beading on his forehead.

"What if I told you I was only sixteen?" I barely breathe the words, but I know he hears.

His eyes pop open, and he frowns, and maybe he'll surprise me.

"You are not," he says.

"What if I am?" I raise an eyebrow, challenging.

"Jesus," he mutters. "Shit."

His fingers dig and grip where they hold my hipbones.

I lift higher so my cleavage is in his face, and I circle my hips, teasing the tip of his cock with my slickness.

"You have to tell me, baby. Tell me if you want my tight little underage pussy on that cock."

"Oh," he groans. "Please."

I slide down fast and hard, letting him fill me and hit me deep. It hurts a little, just in the right place, and I love it. I move down farther, lifting my knees off the seat so I can take more of him, and he obligingly lifts his hips, rocking into me. He's cursing and grunting as he slides in and out, "Oh, fuck, yeah. Shit, yes, your pussy, my god..."

I grind and circle and pull and pull, taking him as deep as I can get him. His hands stay planted on my chest, one over each hard nipple. Mine grip the headrest behind him, giving me leverage, letting me contort and control.

I'm so hot and slick, and I can feel myself tightening, my orgasm creeping up fast. I chase it, and when it's almost there, I unravel his belt from my hand.

"Charlie Charlie Charlie," I chastise, breathless and high and so turned on.

"Yes," he answers.

I move quickly, and he's so caught up.

Before he has time to react, to register what I'm doing, the belt is around his neck and I yank it tight, tighter. I wrap the loose end up around my left hand and grab onto the headrest again. I keep riding his cock. His face is starting to turn red, and his deep brown eyes are all kinds of surprised.

"Fuck, yes," I scream, tugging harder and squeezing my eyes shut as I feel myself come and as he starts to fight. His hands slip and grip at my hips, trying to push me off. His dick slides out of me and my back hits the steering wheel. I'll have a nice bruise to remind me of him for the next few days.

I've got him though. I am still pulsing, writhing, begging for more and so high on my orgasm and the thrill of his struggle. Without oxygen, he tires so fast. He doesn't fight for long, and with a little effort and a lot of pleasure, I'm able to guide him back inside me.

I've got him so tight, and he can't lift me off in this small space. He grabs at my hands and pulls at the belt that's wound there. My free hand pulls his hair. He's turning such a dark red now.

"Oh, yeah, baby." I bounce and fuck and ride him hard.

"Mmm, you've never looked better," I whisper into his ear. He can't get any air, but he makes noise anyway. He's about to pass out, and his eyes are so expressive, more than the others. There's fear on the surface, but beneath it he's giving me his resignation, guilt, freedom, and even a little excitement. This one's ready to die, I can tell.

He's still mostly hard, and I clench muscles to keep him inside of me, to trap him. Grinding and grinding as his body goes slack. The fingertips of my right hand find my clit, and I rub soft little circles, again and again, faster and faster as he goes limp inside of me. I close my eyes and picture his face right before he passed out. When I shatter around him again, I jerk the belt and open my eyes to watch blood trickle where the buckle cuts into his skin. "Shit, fuck, yes," I whisper, completely breathless.

When I come down, I know he's dead. Charlie's only my fourth, but he wasn't so different from the rest. I lift myself off of him and scoot across the cab, working my jeans up my clingy, damp thighs and running his belt through my loops. I have to knot the leather, and I have at least seven extra inches hanging down my thigh. I light a cigarette and smile, looking out the front window at the nothingness that surrounds us. I meet the eyes of the dark, onlooking scarecrow.

"Did you enjoy the show, motherfucker?" I talk to it because there's no one else here.

I'm not sure where the hell Charlie took me, but I'll be able to find my way out.

I say the names of my men out loud.

"James." My first. The man who raped me when I was sixteen. The man who made me the monster I am. I exhale smoke.

"Phil." The dirty homeless man who thought he could touch me because I was alone and afraid. I was eighteen.

I inhale again, taking the tingling bits of white poison all the way to the bottom of my lungs, letting it slip out as I whisper, "Jasper." The hardest one. The one who said he loved me, until I asked him to stop. The only one I cut, the only one who bled out for me and all over me.

"Just a psychotic girl, and I won't get lost in your world…" I sing-song the tune of his favorite song, a requiem. I remember when he taught me to ride his motorcycle, plopping the oversized helmet on my pixie-cut hair, showing me how to shift gears. I remember the way he clipped the strap in place under my chin before he kissed the end of my nose.

"Just a psychotic girl," I whisper, and I feel a tear slip down my cheek, taking my blue eye-liner and blackest mascara with it.

After a long sigh, it's time to list my most recent, but probably not my last. "And Charlie." I reach over and run my little fingers through his dark curls.

When the cigarette's gone and I feel like I can move again, I climb out of the truck. I reach into the pocket on the inside of my leather jacket and pull out the little tin can of accelerant, squirting it all over the inside of the cab and Charlie's lifeless body. I look at him a moment.

"There's always a choice, you know. I find men aren't able to make the right decisions. Ever. Fucking perverts, all of let your dicks do all the thinking. So, so stupid." I tisk tisk tisk.

I walk around to the driver's door and open it, touching the flame of my lighter to the edge of Charlie's flannel. Then I slam the door and walk away, the warmth from the flames on my back.

I flip off the scarecrow as I trudge back out toward the road, ready to keep moving. I think about where I'll go next. I've always wanted to see L.A.

As I walk back in the direction we came from, I whistle the tune that sticks in my head, mumbling lyrics about Jasper's crazy girl.

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**Thank you to Geeky for beta'ing, to Lellabeth for pre-reading, and to the hosts of the "A Journey into the Dark & Twisted" contest. This little fucked up piece of work won creepiest female and best alternate pairing. Alice and I are flattered, really. **

**There are links to the prompts as well as the award banners in my profile.**


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